


to the ends of the sea i would follow you

by unnohrian (cuddlebros)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Reader is a Blacksmith, Spontaneous Decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:04:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlebros/pseuds/unnohrian
Summary: The day she saunters into port is the day you lose yourself to her.





	to the ends of the sea i would follow you

The day she saunters into port is the day you lose yourself to her.

Eyes from every corner of every storefront she passes follow the confident sway of her hips, the warm umber of her skin, the glint of gold that adorns her. You are no jeweller, but your fingers itch to craft beautiful golden snakes to grace those strong biceps.

It’s all you can do to drag your attention back to the molten metal you’re fashioning into basic armour for whoever had the most coin. Even as you do, your mind wanders with every hammer strike back to the practiced sensuality of that walk, clanging in time with the thud of her boots on the ground.

The red-hot beginnings of a gauntlet are plunged into tepid seawater, and, eyes shut, you bathe your face in the comfort of the hot steam. As it clears, and you are just about to pull your gauntlet away to rest on your bench, her swarthy figure comes into view.

“You know, all this steam makes for _quite_ the entrance. Can you bottle this stuff?”

You stare at her, not quite believing that she’s addressing you. Her hand is squarely upon her hip, her smirk is comfortable upon her lips, and her eyes are set directly on you. If your throat was capable of sound at that moment, you are sure that you would be babbling unintelligibly--you are almost thankful that you can’t force your voice to work.

“Come now, sweet thing,” she grins, and-- _oh!_ \--walks closer, “tell me that no cat has stolen that pretty tongue of yours!”

The words tumble out of your mouth with little prompting on your part. “No, no, I apologise, my lady. I was unduly distracted. May I help you?”

“I am sure there are many things you could help me with,” she laughs, shamelessly looking you up and down. “But today I’m looking for something in particular. Heard from some of my men that you were the best blacksmith around--and I need a custom job. Blades, and good ones. I’m a girl that likes to get things done properly, if you know what I mean.”

“Blades, I can do. Daggers, short swords, longswords--anything, really. I take it that you’re looking for daggers?”

“Correct,” she says, pulling her daggers with nonchalant ease from their place on her back and throwing them onto the table in front of you. They’re beautiful things--golden handles carved with ornate designs of winding vines and cresting dragons, ships and waves and other things so tiny that you must squint to see them. The blades catch your eye, too. They’re dull steel, blade rounded by use and ends too smooth to be much use.

“I appreciate the flattery,” you say, trailing your fingertips reverently against the gilded handles, “but your men may have led you slightly awry with me. If you needed a simple blade, I could make ‘em sharp as you like, but ornate things and gold work aren’t my forte.”

It’s disappointing, but you’re realistic about your abilities. The request is not unusual, but it is strange for you when people confuse your skills for practical metal-work for skills in ornamental design. Even though you have studied under a skilled blacksmith for many years, they had never taught you anything regarding more than the basics of aesthetics.

“I’m offended that you think I’d take the word of untrustworthy sources, sweetness. These are my usual blades, and I _will_ ask for you to sharpen my tools,” she winks, “but I need a few… less flashy blades. Space for runes and all that boring business. I have good coin, but we’re only in port for a few weeks.”

“A few weeks will be more than enough. You can take a look at some of our daggers and tell me what things you like about them--I’ll have to adapt their design to your fighting style and what you intend to use them for,” you say, directing her towards the weapons rack at the back of your storefront, “but once you’ve made your decision, it’ll be a pretty quick make.”

“A shame,” she sighs, pouting at the display. “I was hoping to have a better excuse to spend more time learning about metalwork…”

She grins at you-- _Maker she’s close_ \--and you’re staring down at the tiny ball of gold hiding under her unfairly plump lips, and thinking thoughts so scandalous that you might just have to stop by the Chantry to beg for forgiveness this eve. Your eyes are still there when you reply.

“You’re free to stay for a while, when I’m making things. As long as you’re not terrified of molten metal and spitting flames, I suppose.”

“Oh sweet thing.” Her eyes take on a sadness that you immediately decide does not befit her. “I am of the sea, and the sea has long forgotten it's fear of flame.”

* * *

Day after day, she watches you in your element.

When hammering begins to jarr your wrist, she notices your grimace. Gently, she takes your hands in hers and massages the tendons in your wrist, exercising them in ways she’s taught her men until the joints are supple and ready for work once again. Where her skin touches yours, the feel of it burns into your memory; the ghost of soft palms and calloused fingertips follow you for days.

She tells you her name while she’s doing this, and then she tells you all about her ship, her adventures, tales so tall that you could be fooled into thinking they’re the tales of pirates centuries old. Something tells you though, that there is nothing but truth in her words.

She’s wonderful for conversation, and your previous commissions fly by until you are free to work on her own. If you had thought she had taken interest before, then she is obsessed with how you work on her order.

From the raw block of metal emerges a blade worthy of a duelist such as she; sharp and wicked, serrated and simple, and for once you feel a satisfaction about your work. When you hand them to her, still warm from your hands, she smiles - and those blades look perfect in her hands.

“These are perfect,” she grins, throwing them experimentally at a dummy across the room. They slice through the canvas and straw, stuck right where a human chest would be. It’s oddly alluring. “And just in time, too. We’re leaving for the Marches in two days.”

Your heart drops. This must be the feeling of those thrown bound into the sea, this hollow sense of slow falling that leaves you empty.

But you had known when she arrived that the sea was her love, that her place was firmly riding rolling waves from coast to coast, not by your side at a worn-out seafront smithy. You wouldn’t be the line that would tether her to land, wouldn’t tear her away from the life of adventure and stories - no matter how much you wished to believe that your easy friendship was worth pursuing towards fairy-tale romance.

“Oh!” you exclaim, uneasy smile wavering on your lips. “So soon! It seems like you just arrived. But I’m glad I could finish them in time, Isabela. Hopefully they will remind you of me, and that you shall always have a friend in Rialto.”

She saunters over, yanking the blades violently from their target. “Will my friend be in Rialto all their life?” Her daggers are in their holsters now, expertly placed safely behind her back. “I was _so_ hoping that they’d make an attractive new addition to my crew.”

Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but raise your hopes. If she asked--if she were _serious_ \--you would not hesitate to sell your business and join her side. For so long, you had been resigned to a solitary life, with only your forge for company. Your father had so long taught you that the sea was not a place for the child of a smith, no matter how much you had wanted to travel, but an invitation from someone so full of charisma, someone you could see yourself falling in love with--you could find no way to refuse.

Perhaps she senses your hesitation, for her actions leave you a width of room for decision.

“Here,” she says quietly, pressing a pouch of gold into your hand. “If you want to join me, sweet, _sweet_ thing, you may find me before we cast off. If you don’t, then know that you will still be a dear friend to me, and I will bother you _constantly_ whenever we return to Rialto.” She laughs a little, presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, and walks off towards the inn.

While you deliberate through the evening, you cannot rid your mind of the memory of the golden ball under her lips pressing a second cool kiss into your skin.

* * *

Your colleague must think Wintersend has come early when you offer to sell them the smithy for almost half the gold it’s worth. If this was the wrong decision, you reason, regret would fill you soon and you would know to stay.

The regret never comes.

* * *

Her ship looks resplendent at dawn. The metalwork gleams and the wood takes on a glow that makes it look warm and alive, bobbing in the gentle waves of the harbour. It suits her, you think, this ship that looks just as lively as her.

For a moment, you can hear only the port waking up, the sounds of vendors setting up stalls and low, sleepy conversation carrying to you on the salty breeze - and you know that you will miss this. But a hand comes to rest in the crook of your arm, and that wide and knowing smile faces you when you turn to her, growing only wider when you press a quick kiss to her lips.

And you know that you would miss so much more in return for this memory.

* * *

 At the head of her ship she stands, bathing in foam and spray from the waves rolling in towards her, a proud goddess of all she surveys. Sunlight bathes her in brazen light, and you can feel her smile in her stance. The crew are probably moving around you, but the Maker himself could not tear your eyes from her.

She catches sight of you when she turns, and even from a distance her eyes glow hazel and playful, and you know that soon you will be bearing the fruits of her good mood.

You can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I was working on writing in a more poetic style, I guess less concrete than I usually write things, focusing more on description and character than major events and actions. I love Isabela, and I'd follow her to the ends of the earth and beyond.
> 
> If you spot any errors in spelling or grammar, characterization or metal-work research (I'm not a blacksmith, unfortunately!) then feel free to let me know in a comment or at cuddlebros.tumblr.com! Or if you have any advice or criticism, those are welcome too. Or comments on my Dragon Age lore, which also kind of spotty, despite my best efforts.
> 
>  
> 
> _[Crossposted onto dA under the username cuddlebros]_


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